Till the End
by Assimbya
Summary: Moments in the friendships between Arthur Holmwood, Quincey Morris, and Jack Seward.


_May 26__th_

"What did Lucy say when she accepted you?" Quincey asked as he cut his chicken, his voice sounding genuinely interested and not bitter at all.

"Quincey, let Art keep some things to himself," Jack protested, looking rather pale and faint. Arthur noticed the faint puncture marks just below the rolled up fabric of his sleeve, and felt a brief surge of guilt for his own happiness.

"I don't mind telling about it, but I think it's not fair to Lucy to go around describing our proposals to her and the ways she reacted to them," Arthur said, though he really was more worried about Jack's reaction than Lucy's.

Quincey shrugged. "That makes sense, I suppose." There was a brief pause, an unusually awkward moment for the three of them. Then Quincey spoke, smiling, "Look, Art, Lucy's a great girl, and we all know that you were the best one for her. I'm very happy for the both of you."

Jack smiled at Arthur too, though it looked slightly forced. "So am I. I want only the best for the both of you."

"Thank you," Arthur said, "thank you both. You're really the best friends a man could hope for, being so understanding about this whole situation."

Quincey put an arm around Arthur's shoulders. "Of course we'd be understanding." He paused, considering how to phrase his next words. "We just all have to promise that we can't let this change anything between us. Even though you're going to be a married man soon, Arthur, you can't start making excuses to never spend time with the rest of us!" Quincey's voice was lighthearted, but Arthur could hear the worry there.

Arthur considered for a moment, and then took a hold of first Quincey's hand and then Jack's. "I won't, I promise. You two have been my closest mates for years now – I wouldn't let anything get in the way of that."

_September 22__nd_

The funeral was over, beautiful Lucy consigned to silent earth forevermore. The three of them were the only ones left there, sitting in what had been Lucy's drawing room – it belonged to Arthur now, he supposed, like everything else of Lucy's or her mother's but he couldn't imagine it as being his anymore than he could imagine himself as Lord Godalming. No, this would always be Lucy's drawing room, and Lord Godalming would always be his father, he was sure of that.

Oh, there was so much death, all around him! Jack, the good man, had arranged Lucy's funeral, but Arthur still had to make the arrangements for his father's, and he didn't know how he was going to bear that, the undertaker asking him what kind of wood he wanted for the coffin or what the tombstone should say when he just didn't _care,_ didn't care about any of it. His father and Lucy were dead, gone – those sorts of mundane concerns would never matter again.

But he was the head of the Holmwood family now, and he had to at least pretend that they mattered. So, though he wanted at that moment to be nowhere but in that room with Jack and Quincey, Arthur stood. "I have to be heading back to the Ring soon," he told them, his voice empty, "I should go pack."

Immediately, Jack was on his feet as well, his voice calm and professional, as though Arthur was one of his patients. "You shouldn't travel so quickly, Art," he said, so logical, so rational, "not after having suffered this sort of loss and having given blood so recently as well. You should rest – I'll telegram your sister to tell her that you'll be there later than expected, she'll understand –"

Arthur shook his head. "They're counting on me to be there to make the funeral arrangements," he said, "I simply cannot delay any longer."

Suddenly, Quincey too stood. "I'll go with you, Art."

That, Arthur had not expected. "You will?"

Quincey nodded. "Of course. I'm sure Jack would too, but he has that asylum of his to attend to. But I knew the late Lord Godalming, and want to pay my respects. And you shouldn't be alone at a time like this."

At any other time, Arthur would have felt ridiculous about it, but, at that moment, it seemed completely logical to fling his arms around Quincey in an embrace, holding his friend close. After a few seconds of that, he let Quincey go and did the same to Jack, who had first seemed stiff and startled but soon relaxed and put his arms around Arthur in return. When Arthur let go of Jack, he realized he was crying. "Thank you," he said softly, "both of you."

And, at that point, that was all that needed to be said.

_October 3__rd_

Arthur, Jack, and Quincey had gone to sit alone, for it seemed to all of them heartless to watch Jonathan and Mina's sorrow at such a time. And, for each of them, there was comfort in the presence of the others, comfort that they all greatly needed, the many terrifying images from the previous night vivid in their minds.

"Do you think," Quincey began uncertainly, his voice quivering in a manner that was quite unlike him, "that…what we saw last night was what the Count did to Lucy?"

Arthur said nothing, for he didn't know himself, but, luckily, Jack shook his head. "I don't think so. We know from Mina's journal and what we ourselves have seen that the Count was hypnotizing Lucy…to do his will, and that she was unconscious of what took place. Whatever the poor woman must have gone through, I don't think she had to bear the torment of remembering…that sort of thing."

"But she did drink his blood, didn't she?" Arthur couldn't bring his voice to above a whisper. The thought of Lucy's head against the Count's chest, his blood in her mouth, was almost too much to bear, despite the fact that he had seen her already as a monster, with fangs and blood on her lips.

"I don't know," Jack replied, his voice breaking halfway through his statement.

"Not even the Professor knows, does he?" Arthur asked.

Again, Jack shook his head. "I don't think that he does, at least."

"I thought," Arthur said softly, "that when Lucy died…the second time, it would have to be the end of our troubles. I thought that, after that, nothing worse could ever happen, and all we would have to deal with would be the memories of it all. Then I found out that this…creature who did that to Lucy was still out there, and I wanted, more than anything, for him to be destroyed. Not to kill him, because I never specifically wanted that, but just for him to be gone and to do no one any more harm. I was willing to do anything to make that happen, to go across the world. But I didn't imagine that he would…well, all this with Mina, it's just like what happened with Lucy all over again."

"And with Renfield," Jack added, "he was my patient, I should have been able to protect him…he should never have been another casualty of the Count's rage."

Quincey's voice seemed to have gained in strength from his first, tentative, question, "But this time, we won't let it all happen again. We know more what we're doing this time, and we have some idea of where the Count will be."

"Yes," Jack said, "that's true."

"We might not have been able to save Lucy, bless her soul," Quincey continued, "but we can save Mina."

_November 6__th_

Quincey's blood stained the snow red and it seemed to be everywhere as Arthur desperately clutched his friend's hand. Oh, he had to live, he had to! The Count was destroyed, and by brave Quincey's knife, the burn was gone from Mina's forehead, they had won!

But even as Arthur looked imploringly at Jack, who sat at Quincey's other side, hoping that the other man might have bandages that could stop the flow of blood or some magical elixir that could keep Quincey from death, his friend drew a final, rattling breath and went limp.

No one seemed quite sure how to react. Mina, crying softly, crossed herself, seeming astonished that the gesture did not pain her. The Professor was examining the coffin which had held the Count, as though he didn't want to have to bear Quincey's death. Jonathan, who held Quincey's body, seemed to be half watching Mina and half watching Quincey, relief almost stronger than sorrow in his eyes.

Jack seemed shocked. Arthur didn't know what to say, and thought suddenly that it would normally be Quincey who came up with comforting things to say in such a situation. But he wouldn't let the silence remain. So, continuing to hold Quincey's limp, bloodied hand, Arthur reached over and grabbed Jack's hand with his own free one. "It's all right," he practically whispered, "this is how he would have wanted to die, after all. In the middle of an adventure, having just saved someone. He did always like those sort of exciting, romantic things, after all."

Slowly, Jack smiled. And Arthur knew that, despite all the tragedies, despite the loss of so many that they cared about, they would be all right.


End file.
